#pool fixture game

[fastfoodcrimewave]

Home Bar U-Shape in DC Metro

Inspiration for a large transitional u-shaped porcelain tile and beige floor seated home bar remodel with an undermount sink, recessed-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, marble countertops, multicolored backsplash and glass tile backsplash

[iseestarsnation]

Traditional Family Room - Game Room

Example of a huge classic enclosed medium tone wood floor and brown floor game room design with red walls, a standard fireplace, a tile fireplace and no tv

[willhops]

Transitional Basement - Underground Basement - huge transitional underground porcelain tile and beige floor basement idea with beige walls

[jimbosplaidshirt]

Transitional Home Bar - Home Bar Inspiration for a large transitional u-shaped porcelain tile and beige floor seated home bar remodel with an undermount sink, recessed-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, marble countertops, multicolored backsplash and glass tile backsplash

[noisett-e]

Underground Basement Large transitional underground porcelain tile basement design with beige walls

[stafiredaily]

Transitional Home Bar - Home Bar Inspiration for a large transitional u-shaped porcelain tile and beige floor seated home bar remodel with an undermount sink, recessed-panel cabinets, dark wood cabinets, marble countertops, multicolored backsplash and glass tile backsplash

[enwoso]

Another edition of clumsy Lovie: they’re going on a team walk the morning of a game and it’s been miserable weather so there’s lots of puddles and the ground is slippy and Lovie is running around with Kyra but trips and falls right into a big cold dirty puddle and normally she’d hop back up and say she’s ok but she’s hurt herself is all muddy and embarrassed and she’s screaming out for alessia and she wants to be in dry clothes but obviously not an option with them all being on a walk

MUDDY PUDDLES — alessia russo x child!reader

grumpy masterlist

“be careful lovie!” alessia called out as she watched as you and kyra ran around, the team being on a pre-match walk. much to the teams dismay, the weather not being the nicest. the clouds forming grey and dark as a light drizzle covered the streets of north london.

you were in your own little bubble with kyra chasing you weaving in and out of the puddles as they splashed up your new boots, not hearing an inch of whatever your mummy had just said.

all you could hear was kyra’s chants that she was going to get you as you giggled echoed throughout the park.

“she’s gonna fall- i can see it happening” alessia grumbled as a sigh left her lips, a small chuckle coming from vic at her best friends complaints.

“well tiny is your child so it would make sense-“ vic started as quick side look was given from alessia as she opened her mouth to try and defend herself but alessia knew she had two left feet so whatever she said wouldn’t help her case — if anything probably make it worse.

“lovie’s got those boots on and there massive on her, but she insisted on wearing them” alessia commented as she winced slightly watching you trip but you managed to stay on your feet, somehow.

vic just let another laugh out knowing you were very stubborn something you didn’t get from the blonde as the topic changed to the upcoming international break and the fixtures. alessia making sure her eyes flickered to you running around every few seconds.

the team wondered further along the park on the pre match walk as you and kyra continued your game of chase, alessia and a few others stopping to grab a coffee from a little stall turning her back on you for a few moments.

“um a small flat white please-“ alessia asked the barista as they nodded quickly putting a small take away cup into the machine before going to serve the next girl behind alessia as vic stood close by.

alessia’s coffee was finished fairly quickly but just as the blonde turned around, her coffee cup warming her hands, vic still talking her ear off about the new book she’d been reading. “oh you’ve got to be kidding me“ alessia cut vic off as she watched as you slipped and fell in a stream of water on the footpath. a muddle puddle at that.

“what-.. oh” vic questioned before following alessia’s eye line and seeing you. “you did call it less!” vic smiled hoping to lighten up the mood as a small huff come from the blonde next to her.

your boot being a few inches away from you as you sat in the puddle, kyra yet to realise that you were no longer chasing her and instead sat in pool of muddy water. cursing herself for not getting you to take those stupid boots off your feet that were a two sizes too big for you.

alessia waited, stood still for a moment wondering if you were just going to hop back up like you usually did, chirping a small ‘i’m okay’ but when that didn’t happen that’s when you started to wail.

tears streaming down your face, catching the entire team and probably the entire park’s attention. kyra stopping in her tracks as she winced. alessia passing her coffee which she’d yet to have a sip at to vic to hold.

“lovie, c’mere. it’s okay” your mummy cooed as she held her hand out for you to grab as she pulled you up from the wetness of the puddle, revealing the mess of your clothes you’d made. your sobs still echoing around the park.

you entire bottom half was soaked through as well as half your t-shirt through your rain coat. “mummy i hurt my knee” you said as you bottom lip continued to wobble as mummy walked you back towards the group as she tried to figure out what was going to be the best option right now.

“don’t worry baby, we’ll get you changed as quick as we can” your mummy said softly as you gripped her hand a little tighter, the feeling of your wet clothes was starting to annoy you as they felt sucky and clung to your skin.

“tiny what you like eh!” beth joked as she ruffled you hair as a few giggle came from the team as they took in your soaked form. small little ringlet curls formed in your hair from the rain.

normally you would have laughed with them and said you were a brave girl but you were now cold, wet and had a grazed knee as you clung to the leg for a small hint of warmth from your mummy awaiting her next move.

“i’m gonna have to get her changed somehow, otherwise she’s gonna catch a cold” alessia’s brow furrowing but her car was at least fifteen minutes away and then driving back home was another fifteen on top of that.

“why don’t you just drive to the stadium and get her something from the armoury, i’m sure they’ll have something warm in there for tiny” lotte shrugged knowing it wasn’t long until the game kicked off, it was an idea and alessia didn’t have many so it was probably going to have to do.

“that’s a good idea actually-“ alessia pondered for a minute before deciding that’s what she’ll do, it was the quickest option she had for the time limit she was on. you were a little happier knowing you were a little closer to getting out your wet clothes.

“i’ll meet you guys at the stadium then” alessia smiled as she checked the time on her watch, as the rest of the team nodded.

“less- less your coffee” vic called out, holding up the small coffee cup as if it was a trophy as alessia waved it off not wanting it anymore that and the fact it would most likely to be cold, as vic turned to her teammates wondering if any of them wanted a cold but untouched flat white. all of them grimacing as they shook their heads leaving vic stuck with holding the white takeaway cup.

“lovie, mummy will get a plaster for your sore knee when we get back to the car” your mummy smiled as she lifted you onto her hip, hoping that carrying you back to the car would be a little quicker as you nodded.

“mummy?” you said quietly it almost being a whisper, as your mummy hummed waiting for you to continue. “i get the gunnersaurus onesie?” you asked having seen it in the armoury the last time but mummy said you didn’t need it, so you sadly walked away empty handed from the gunnersaurus onesie.

alessia sighed, part of her knew that was going to happen and the other part of her was hoping you’d forgotten about it, “we’ll see lovie” as your mummy carried on walking towards her car.

[l0vergirlsw0rld]

changes

dbf!loganxgrown!reader

a/n: my first resquest! i hope you like it <3 send me more requests pls pls!

wc:2.5k

FLUFF, AGE GAP, TABOO RELATIONSHIP

summary: you've had enough of the tension between you and Logan, your dad's best friend, so you decided to go confront him about it.

It’s funny how the past creeps up on you. One minute, you’re just a kid with scraped knees and big dreams, and the next, you’re staring down the barrel of decisions you swore you’d never make. But life’s got a way of pushing you into corners, and before you know it, you’re crossing lines you didn’t even know were there.

Logan’s always been a fixture in my life, like the smell of cigar smoke that clings to the walls long after the flame’s been snuffed out. A constant. Steady. Safe, in a way that most people never are. My dad’s best friend, the man who taught me how to throw a punch and how to take one. He was always there, just on the periphery, watching out for me in that quiet, gruff way of his.

But things change. People change. Or maybe, it’s just me. Because somewhere along the way, the way I look at him shifted. The safe, familiar lines blurred, and now I’m seeing things I wasn’t supposed to see—feeling things I wasn’t supposed to feel.

It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing full well that one wrong step could send you plummeting, but you can’t bring yourself to step back. And Logan… he’s the kind of danger you run toward, not away from.

I know better. I should know better. But when I’m around him, all that common sense goes up in smoke. Just like the end of his cigar, burning slow, smouldering—until there’s nothing left but ash.

You put down your pen with a heavy sigh.

Your diary, the safekeeping for all your thoughts and worries, had recently become your go-to place for your impure thoughts as well.

A part of you wished you could go back to the way it was before. It was simpler, more moral, and occupied a lot less of your mind than it did now.

But something had shifted between the two of you when you became a woman. 

The way you looked at him was a big one. Now that you were in the adult dating pool as well, you couldn’t help but notice that Logan was an attractive man and a single one too.

You obsessively questioned why that was because, to you, he was the complete package; More than just tall, dark, and handsome. 

You would catch yourself stealing glances when he wasn’t looking, the way his chest and abdominal muscles flexed beneath his shirt when he moved. The protruding veins of his forearms and hands, how his fingers were covered in callouses from work.

You had memorized the way his voice dipped into a low grumble when he said your name, how his hazel eyes darkened with something unspoken when they met yours.

The way he spoke to you also took a drastic turn. Keeping the conversation preferably to small talk, or once in a while he’d tease you and call you those annoying pet names from when you were little:

“Watch your mouth, sweetheart.” 

“Come on princess, take a joke,” 

“Kid, you’re gonna be the death of me.”  

Another thing was the way you interacted with each other; you weren’t jumping into his arms as soon as he stepped through the door or being picked up and settled into his lap anymore, it was just a nod of acknowledgement or a slight touch on your lower back if he needed to pass by you.

Even the littlest amount of contact didn’t stop you from imagining what it would feel like if he didn’t stop himself from touching you. What it would feel like if he let go of that last thread of restraint that keeps him just out of reach.

When you lay alone at night, you couldn’t help but think about sitting on that lap again one day.

The lines between right and wrong blur every time he’s near now. It’s dangerous, this game you’re both playing in your heads.

The last time he’d been over, fixing something for your dad, you couldn’t help but notice how his gaze lingered on you a moment too long. How the air seemed to crackle with tension when you were alone in the room together.

“You alright bub’?” he’d tried to play it casually but his eyes… his eyes told a different story.

Bub, the nickname he had given you when you were younger.

“Yeah, just watching you,” you’d bit your lip, keeping your gaze locked on his. 

He nodded, but the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands gripped the wrench a little harder, told you everything you needed to know. You could feel the weight of his gaze on your back as you left the room, your heart pounding in your chest, knowing he felt it too—the pull, the magnetic force that kept you two stealing glances here and there. 

You close the diary with a soft thud as if shutting the book could somehow lock away the thoughts swirling in your head. But the truth is, there’s no escaping them—not when every interaction with Logan leaves you trembling with a flame you cannot control.

And now, sitting in your room, your diary clutched to your chest like a lifeline, you know it’s only a matter of time before something gives. 

There is no better time than the present after all…Fuck it.

With a deep breath, you push yourself off the bed and glance at the clock. It’s late, but you know Logan’s still awake—he always is.

 Part of you was set on going to see him now, to see if the tension you’ve been imagining is real, if he’ll react the same way as you will.

But another part of you, the part that remembers the little girl who used to jump into his arms without a second thought, holds you back. 

Because once you took that step, there was no going back to the way things were before.

And maybe that’s what scared you the most.

You slipped out of your apartment, clutching your car keys so tightly that the metal might bend under the pressure.

 What were you doing? You weren’t entirely sure yourself, but it felt as if your body was on autopilot—drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Finding your car, you slid into the driver’s seat, your fingers trembling as you shot Logan a quick text.

Y/N: You up?

Your leg bounced nervously as you waited for his reply. How would he react? Would his voice of reason prevail, or would he finally admit to feeling the same pull that you did?

A moment later, your phone buzzed. Logan responded with a simple thumbs-up emoji.

Very on brand. 

Simple, efficient, and direct. You thought.

With his green light, you pulled out of the parking garage and drove towards his log cabin up at Deer Lake. The hum of the engine was the only sound breaking the stillness of the night. The closer you got, the more your heart pounded against your ribcage, a steady rhythm that matched the thoughts racing through your mind. 

You couldn’t stop replaying the last time you’d been alone with him, the way his eyes had lingered on yours just a fraction too long, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw when your fingers brushed his as he handed you something.

Was tonight the night everything would change?

As you turned onto the narrow, winding road that led to his place, the dense trees seemed to close in around you, the darkness thickening with each passing second.

The familiarity of the path did little to ease your nerves; if anything, it only heightened the anticipation. 

You’d been here countless times before, but tonight was different. Tonight, you weren’t just visiting a family friend—you were venturing into no man's land.

Finally, the cabin came into view, the warm glow of the porch light spilling out into the cold night air.

You parked the car and took a deep breath, your hand hovering over the door handle as you tried to steady yourself. 

There was still time to turn back, to pretend this had all been a bad idea, a fleeting moment of weakness.

But deep down, you knew you weren’t going to, you knew you didn’t want to.

With a quiet resolve, you stepped out of the car and made your way up the steps to his door. The sound of gravel crunching beneath your boots seemed louder in the stillness of the night.

You hesitated for a moment at the door, your hand raised to knock, when it suddenly swung open, revealing Logan standing there, backlit by the soft light from inside.

He was dressed in his usual white tank top and denim jeans. His tall presence filled the doorway, broad shoulders and familiar, rugged face, but it was the look in his eyes that held you captive. There was a flicker of something there—something that mirrored the pressure in your chest.

“Kid,” he said, his voice low and steady, but you could hear the tension beneath it.

“Can I come in?” You mumbled shyly. 

He nodded,  and you stepped past him into the cabin. The door closed behind you with a soft click, and suddenly the world outside felt very far away. It was as if you’d crossed over into a place where nothing but the two of you existed.

You followed Logan deeper into the cabin, the warmth from the fireplace offering a sharp contrast to the cold, restless night outside. He leaned against the table, returning his glass of whiskey in his hand.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to break the silence. “Logan… can we talk?”

He took a swig and looked up, his hazel eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. “‘Bout what?”

You hesitated, then stepped closer, your heart racing. “Logan, I see the way you look at me.”

He took a swig of his drink.

“... it’s okay. I’ve been looking too.” You stepped closer. 

“I know, sweetheart,” He looked down into his drink. “...hard to ignore what’s goin' on between us.” 

Your breath hitched: he acknowledged it. 

“It is hard, and it’s driving me crazy... we can’t keep pretending like there’s nothing here. I like you, a lot, and I know it’s wrong but I can’t help it.” You fiddled with your fingers. 

“Kid,” he began, his voice gruff, “it ain’t wrong to feel what you’re feelin’. Not with the way that things have changed between us.”

You swallowed, your heart pounding in your chest as you took another step closer, the tension between you thickening with each breath. “Then why have you been pulling away? Why do you keep acting like we can just ignore this?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing as if he was trying to find the right words. “I’ve been tryin’ to protect you…. Things ain’t as simple as they used to be. You’re not a little girl anymore, and I’m… well, I’m me. There’s a lot of weight that comes with this, darlin’. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it too.”

Your heart ached at his words, and a relieved sigh escaped your body. “I don’t care about the weight, Logan. I just… I want to figure this out with you. I want us to be honest about what we’re feeling, even if it’s messy.”

Logan’s expression softened, a hint of vulnerability showing through his tough exterior. “You’re sure about this, princess? Once we open this door, there ain’t no goin’ back.”

You nodded, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. “I’m sure. I want to see where this goes. I don’t want to keep pretending.”

Logan took a deep breath and pulled you close to him by your waist, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “Alright, we’ll take it slow and figure it out as we go.” 

Logan’s gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. The warmth of his hand on your waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft crackle of the fire—all of it faded into the background as you both stood there, suspended in the tension of what was about to happen.

You could see the conflict in his eyes, the war between the desire he’d been holding back and the protective instinct that had kept him at a distance for so long. But as you leaned in closer, closing the gap between you, something in his resolve seemed to break.

His hand moved from your waist to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart swoon. Your breath caught as his gaze flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, as if silently asking for permission.

You answered by closing the distance, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was both gentle and intense, like the release of a storm that had been building for far too long. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you even closer as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The kiss deepened, a slow exploration of all the feelings you’d both been holding back. There was a rawness to it, a hunger that had been denied for too long, but also a softness, an unspoken promise that this was only the beginning.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to steady yourselves. Logan’s hand remained on your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as if he was memorizing the moment.

“Damn, kid,” he murmured, You could smell the whiskey on his breath. “That was...”

“Yeah,” you whispered, unable to find the words to describe what you were feeling. “It was.”

Logan’s eyes searched yours, and in them, you saw a mixture of relief, longing, and something deeper—something that told you that whatever came next, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

Without a word, Logan’s hands slid down to your thighs, and with a strength that always amazed you, he lifted you effortlessly. A small gasp escaped your lips as he carried you over to the worn leather armchair by the fire, he settled you in his lap, just like you’d been longing for.

The warmth of his body against yours sent a shiver down your spine as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. Logan held you close, his hand resting on your lower back, grounding you in the moment.

“What now?” he asked with a grin, his voice a little more seductive now as if the kiss had made it harder for him to hold back.

“What happened to start slow?” You tightened your grip around his neck. 

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in to kiss you again, this time slower, savouring every moment. The world outside could wait. For now, all that mattered was this—just the two of you and the beginning of something you both knew you’d been waiting for.

ty so much for your request reader <3

🏷️: @megangovier, @back2thebasics

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[hometoursandotherstuff]

I can't believe that this phenomenal 1888 Victorian in St. Joseph, MO is less than $1m. 4bds, 4ba, 5,062 sq ft, $765k.

The woodwork is incredible and it looks like they used Bradbury & Bradbury wallpaper. These Victorian homes that have the sitting area for waiting guests in the main hallway are pretty cool.

Sunny regular sitting room off to the side has a wonderful fireplace and stained glass. There're also window seats, pocket doors, and leaded glass.

Elegant dining room. The floors in this home are incredible. All of the woodwork is perfectly preserved and the fireplace surrounds have such colorful mosaic tiles.

Look at the rounded wall and window. This leather table looks like a gaming table- would be great for a puzzle. Beautiful fireplace, too.

Glimpse of the stunning vintage 1/2 bath shows several original features.

The kitchen remodel is good, b/c it matches the original wood, but the counter seating around the island throws it off a little.

Coming up the stunning stairs- arches, wood ceiling, carved railings, and a stained glass window.

Wainscoting along the hall to the bedrooms.

The primary bedroom is so beautiful.

And, look at this- a balcony.

This ensuite bath is utterly incredible. The wood, marble, and reproduction fixtures are just superb.

Look at the rounded closet.

Linen closet in the hall.

The black and gold look lovely in this bedroom.

Wait. I recognize this absinthe holder in the home office. I posted this home before. I can't believe it didn't sell, especially for the price. It's a steal.

I also recognize the guest bedroom and bath with the mini sauna. I don't think I could even fit in that thing.

Nice garage. Look at the little door on the end.

The yard is large enough to put in a pool, patio, etc.

The home has beautiful carvings outside.

Lots of trees make the 1.57 acre lot very private.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/631-Hall-St-Saint-Joseph-MO-64501/110497130_zpid/

[casper-spills]

| Tarot Cards: Places they represent |

✩░▒▓▆▅▃▂▁𝟑𝟎𝟎 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥!▁▂▃▅▆▓▒░✩

Hey guys! Welcome back to another post ♡

We reached 300 followers! And I'm gonna do a special for you guys because I seriously am so grateful for all of your support. My blog has been growing so fast and I literally never expected to be where I am today. Thank you! ♡

This post will be a little different to my usual stuff. I was thinking I might start a series like this where I give some tips on how to read your tarot! I'll also include the sources I use at the end in case you wanted to check those out too.

Anyway, here is a list of places that the cards represent ♡

Sincerely,

Cassy the friendly ghost ♡

✦Masterlist ✦Paid Readings ✦Support me through Kofi

𓆩♡𓆪 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝙀𝙍 𝘿𝙄𝙎𝘾𝙊𝙐𝙉𝙏 50% 𝙊𝙁𝙁 !! 𓆩♡𓆪

Ends on September 22nd

| KO-FI SHOP |

| MAJOR ARCANA |

1. Magician - Kitchen, labatory, shows, music, magic, performances

2. High Priestess - Secret place, secret society, library, somewhere quiet, reading rooms, theatre, halls

3. Empress - Old/stately homes, old school building, old hospital building, boutique, beauty parlor, restaurants

4. Emperor - Royal palace, business establishments, schools, univerisity

5. Heirophant - Church, univeristy, temple, place of worship, corporate building

6. Lovers - Sweet shop, date locations, love hotel, honeymoon places

7. Chariot - Car ralley, racing fixtures, garages, horse racing, highway

8. Strength - Zoo, petting zoos, gym, fitness studios

9. Hermit - Cave, retreat centres, hill walking

10. Wheel - Ferris wheels, london eye, casino, lottery tickets, shops selling wheels

11. Justice - Court, arbitration offices, counselling institution, police department

12. Hanged Man - Bungee jumping, sky diving, thrilling activities

13. Death - Church yard, funeral parlor, butcher, cemetary

14. Temperance - Cocktail bar, queues, waiting rooms, chemist dispensary

15. Devil - Adult shops, clubs, casinos, brothel, strip clubs

16. Tower - Chop shops, tall buildings, skyscrapers, stormy areas, fire

17. Star - Water, ocean, river, stargazing

18. Moon - Nighttime, stargazing, movie, stage, theatre

19. Sun - Birth centre, midwifery unti, hospital, holidays, tanning booths, abroad

20. Judgement - Rehabilitation centres, church, treament centres, spa

21. World - Airport, flying, dance studios

| MINOR ARCANA |

☁︎ 𝒔𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 ☁︎

Ace - Editor's room, skyscrapers, office, library, radio tower

Two - Statue of liberty, new york, seashore

Three - Hospital, rainy place, cloudy areas

Four - Bedroom, quiet places, funeral parlor

Five - Debate club, near water, themepark, competitive environments

Six - Boats, river, cruisers

Seven - Archery, secret location, casino, bomb shelter

Eight - Prison, therapy

Nine - Psychiatric hospital, confessional

Ten - Surgery room, accupuncture clinic, dentists

Page - Fraternity, rowdy places, sports arena

Knight - Windy places, windmills

Queen - Fenced off places, great walls, boundaries, spikes fences

King - Lawyers office

🕯 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 🕯

Ace - Workshop, construction site

Two - Balcony, overseas, historical travel, boat

Three - Seaside, boat travel

Four - Fastfood, cafe, outdoors, wedding, celebration

Five - Sport centre, pool game

Six - Market, downtown, show, event, someone/something noticable

Seven - Competitive/violent environment

Eight - Road trip, highway

Nine - Competitive environment, barrier, wall, bouncer, high security

Ten - Workplace, labour, sweatshop

Page - Disco, dance, party

Knight - Hot and dry place, bonfire, abroad, holiday

Queen - Social events

King - Active place, fast moving environments

꒦꒷ 𝒄𝒖𝒑𝒔 ꒷꒦

Ace - Lake, pond, birdbath, birds

Two - Luxury, home, common dating places

Three - Bar, pub, party

Four - Under a tree, graveyard

Five - A place of regret, place of bad memories, hospital, flooded areas, bridge, after party cleanup, alone in a bar

Six - Flourists, schoolyard, playground, nostalgic places

Seven - Highup places, views, drug suppliers, spots where people do drugs, drug shops

Eight - Bookstore, library, cave, quiet

Nine - Bar, party, pub, dinner, home

Ten - Family gatherings, park, outdoor, bbq party

Page - Aquariums, fish tanks, sea parks

Knight - Picnics, peaceful/romantic areas

Queen - Bathtub with cancles, home, skinny dipping, swimming

King - Beach, lake

˗ˏˋ 𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒄𝒍𝒆𝒔 ˎˊ˗

Ace - Dispensary, bank, currency exchange centre

Two - Circus, arcade, carnival

Three - Fashion show runway, art gallery, boutique, museum

Four - Uncle scrooge's home, gold reserves, saferoom, secret hideout, vault

Five - The streets, people living in powerty, homeless spots,

Six - Pawn shops, currency exchange shops, trade stores

Seven - Nursery, orchard

Eight - workshop, construction site

Nine - Gardens, green parks

Ten - Market

Page - Field, farm, family business

Knight - Workplace, chores, school

Queen - Home, nursery room

King - Bank manager's office

♥Thank you for your support!♥

Dividers by @cafekitsune, @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

Source

[storiesfromafan]

Choices - Benny Cross

A/N: I want to say I am sorry. This might upset you all 😅

Here's another short, under 1000 word fic.

Warning/: angst, no happy ending 😅

Tag list: @strayrockette

They say over the course of your life you will have to endure many different moments. Some good, some bad, some funny and some sad. Tonight was one of those night for you. And it was a sad one, as well as a bad one. A moment so sad and bad, that it would change you. A moment were you learned what it was like to watch the one person that you love choose someone else.

His name is Benny, Benny Cross. A Vandal. A wild and free spirit that never asked for anything, nor did he take anything from anyone. He would come and go as he pleased, riding whenever or wherever he liked. Settling for no one. Until her: Kathy.

You were there that night she came into the bar, a deer in headlights by the Vandal men and their attention on her. You were like a fixture to the wall by the pool tables, watching Benny and another Vandal play pool, their money on the table to remind them of the stakes. Benny looked exceptionally delicious tonight, his arms on display and smoulder of a face. You could understand why Kathy was taken with him.

You’d seen her stand from her table, looking to run from the bar. But one look at Benny, and you knew that was it for her. Just like you had been. She moved back to her friend, words exchanged as she kept looking to the pool table. Your heart racing, knowing your Benny had a new admirer.

And when you looked to Benny, you saw him looking in her direction. A look upon his face you’ve hardly seen before: interest. For he rarely ever noticed a women, maybe when he wanted to warm his bed or entertain himself. Those that he did let stick around, they never stayed for long. Seeing what Benny was really like, sometimes it frightened them away. Or they couldn’t change him, so they cut their loses.

You were the exception. You chose to be in his life as a friend. A wallflower in his life. For you would rather that then having your heart broken by Benny Cross. It was safer. You’d watched them come and go, not wanting to be one of them. So, you sat back in silence, heart constantly aching. A smile plastered on your face, when all you wanted was to cry. Supporting him in everything, while you die a little each time. Waiting for the day when it’s the last time, and you finally break for good.

Seeing his opportunity, Benny moved over to Kathy’s table. Taking a hold of a chair, turning it around before sitting next to her. You watched how Benny gave her his best, charming smile as he introduced herself. And then her reply. That was it. That solidified it for them. They were taken with each other, even if Kathy had played hard to get. And that was it for you.

“Oi, (Y/N)��� the man who had just been playing Benny called. “Ya want a game?”

You turned from the budding romance, chest hurting and hallow from what you had watched. A distraction being nice right now, you agreed. Getting up from your spot, you helped set up for the break, watching as the guy strikes the cluster of balls with the white one. Feeling how another crack crossed your heart when they collided. He sunk a large numbered ball, so he took another shot.

And with another hit, part of you knew this might be it. This might be the time you loose Benny for good. All because you were scared to put yourself out there. But why would he want you? You weren’t nothing special, you were practically one of the guys. You dressed like a boy, acted like a boy. But had womanly tendencies at times. And for your tomboy ways, you knew you didn’t stand a chance.

When it came your time to play, you had a front row seat to Kathy leaving. And then Benny right after her not long after she left. With every movement across the bar, with every step he took that crack got bigger. For Benny never went after a woman before. Which told you all you needed to know: she was it. Kathy was the one for him. Not you. You sunk a small number ball just as he stepped outside.

Finally the crack was big enough. Your heart finally broke. You felt numb. Your breathing even. No tears. Nothing. Reality was your unrequited love, was just that. Plain and simple. One sided, not returned. Now you had to learn to live with it. And your choices.

[simstorian-blog]

New York City: ONE

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[saltsicklover]

Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 1 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 2 HERE and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 6k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

---

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Six years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The Officers Club, better known as The Flight Line Bar sits on post in Miramar, frequented by the big brass and educators at Top Gun. The whole place glows with amber light from the buzzing light fixtures that hang from the rafters, dusty and hot to the touch. This half of base, on the far side of the air field has yet to be updated, evident by the chips in the glasses and the inconsistent flickering of the halogen bulbs. The wallpaper is peeling; discolored around the old neon signs that have slowly begun to fizzle out. If it were any brighter inside those four walls, one might be able to see the discoloration of well walked floors and one too many spilt beers.

Two loan pool tables sit in the center of the bar, their felt faded from use and tearing, flanked by a couple of dart boards, their cork crumbling from age. The patrons look about the same, old and wrinkled with age, lines worn into their faces that read closer to distinguished than wary. That's what the military does to a person, wears itself straight into the skin and makes a home there, the ghosts of lost wingman and battle buddies still looming in the whites of their eyes. Too many memories are stuck in the deep folds of their uniforms, worn in around the elbows and shoulders, the creases worn from friction- salute after salute.

It's really a hard to believe that people still frequent The Flight Line Bar. After all, there are so many better places for the students of Top Gun to meander into, just off post where they don't have to risk rubbing shoulders with their instructors- or heaven forbid, hit on their guest lecturers.

After all, It's all fun and games, flirty touches and smooth words until you're slapped with a SHARP report.

The students always figure out the good places to drink after class, shortly after their arrival after one too many moments spent inside the crumbling bar. The drinks are good in taste, better in price, but not worth it at the risk of saying just the wrong thing to just the wrong person.

The new recruits arrival happens like clockwork, and it's a ritual the newly minted Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson loves to witness. He has been watching the little ordeal for the last four years, with each new Top Gun class, even choosing to mark the date on his calendar after having almost missed an incoming class last year.

The new Top Gun recruits wander into The Flight Line Bar in gaggles. Most still clad in their uniforms if they had been lucky enough to get issued a drinking order. The wide eyed aviators would file up to the bar, uneasy looks on their faces as they took in the ranks drinking around them. If the Flight Line Bar was a small pond, the Top Gun inductees are guppies surrounded by some very big fish. One year, a young aviator even tripped over the base commander's seat and was met with a glare that even Cyclone would have been nervous to stand on the receiving end of.

The recruits each drink a beer, the brave ones chancing a second, before they're heading for the door. Cyclone loves to see the discomfort that would roll off of them the moment they crossed the threshold back into the parking lot. Some would even shiver, which always seems to pull a hearty laugh out of the Admiral.

This year, however, Cyclone is met with a very different scene before him when he himself broke the threshold of the Flight Line Bar. Having been stuck in a meeting with Admiral Kazansky, Cyclone ends up arriving later than the usual crowd of recruits. So, when he finally wanders in, he is met with the fleeting glances of some top brass, but no new eyes. He can't fight the way he almost deflates; after the shit day he managed to barely claw his way through, the one thing he was looking forward to were the wide eyes of the newest, freshest meat that Top Gun managed to recruit.

As if today of all days wasn't hard enough to begin with.

Instead, it looks like a regular Friday night, which wouldn't do the leg work needed to actually flip his day around for the better. But he's already there, the drinks are cheap, and he really, really needs a drink. So, he orders with a silent wave of his hand, the borderline elderly man behind the bar meeting the wave with a nod of his head. Cyclone plops down unceremoniously onto one of the rickety barstools. It almost sways under his weight, however it does creak weakly as he settles. His temple meets his knuckles as he lets out a deep sigh as the beer being set down in front of him. Cyclone can only manage a nod to the bartender before lifting the glass to his lips.

The question of why he still drinks here, in this lousy bar, floats through his head for a moment, but he doesn't put fourth the energy to grant himself with an answer. Maybe it's the cheap beer and half price shots. Or, maybe the fact that he doesn't have to fight off the happy hour drinkers or the five o'clock somewhere partiers that seem to be carried in with the wind. Again, he doesn't entertain the question long enough to form an answer.

Cyclone doesn't even have to glance around the bar to know the crowd this Friday night hosts. Top brass, tired officers, and disgruntled wives, each drinking their own bad days away.

The glass feels about a hundred pounds and it meets the bar top with a loud thunk, the amber liquid sloshing around inside. A bit of foam sneaks over the rim, running down the crack in the glass. Cyclone scratches at it with this thumbnail, wondering how the hell the bar is still getting away with using nearly broken glassware. The thought doesn't last long, not many seem to this evening, and he is bringing the impossibly heavy glass back to his mouth for another sip.

As he tips it back a little further this time, the sulking woman a few seats down catches his attention. If this were a normal Friday night, Cyclone might make bets with himself on just why a woman might be crying, in this bar, all alone. He might puzzle that she is a soon to be ex-wife, her spouse making the choice to cheat on deployment. Maybe she is a daughter, or a sister, or a cousin, her base escort hiding in some other corner of the bar, or of the base. But tonight is not a normal Friday night, regardless of the absence of the new incoming class or not.

The Admiral can't help but watch her lazily out of the corner of his eye. She brings a shitty bar serviette up to wipe at her cheeks, sniffling as the paper touches her skin. Cyclone should feel guilty about how much the sight comforts him. At least, he thinks, someone else seems to be having just as bad of a day as he is.

Then, she catches him staring, his beer lost in the space between his lips and the counter. His fingers are sticky against the chilled glass as he holds it there, still watching her. Cyclone doesn't look away, no point in it now. Then, she breaks the disillusioned bubble forming between them with a sniffle and a hiccup.

It's not a pretty sound, but then again, the sight of the woman in front of him isn't exactly pretty either. After all, it's hard to be pretty when snot is rubbed up over the tip of her nose, catching the light as she sniffles again. Her hair is akin to a nest, like her fingers have been making their way through it over and over again until it is more mess than style.

"I'm sorry, Admiral, Sir," Her voice is straining from holding back tears. There is snot dripping from her nose again, and she wipes it with another flimsy napkin. A half effort is made to sweep back the hair in her face, her well kept fingernails catching in newly formed knots as she pushes it back. The woman doesn't break eye contact with him, even as the sight of him begins to swim through her newly forming tears.

"Hey, kid, it's okay, don't worry about it," His eyes meet the fluttering neon sign behind her, not wanting to lock eyes with her again. It lights her in a halo of sickly blue and Cyclone can see the fizziness of her hair in it's light- it's a half distraction from the way she is still looking at him with those tears in her eyes. He can't stand it when women cry, not after watching his wife, June, sob through her entire pregnancy. It's really the way their eyes glaze over- that helpless look where he can just tell they are fighting with everything they are worth, deep down knowing that it might not be enough. Though, it warms his chest a bit to call her "kid", like he has always been meant to use the term.

The Admiral's brown eyes go misty, locking onto the chipped portion of his glass as the memory of his wife, six months pregnant, stuck in a hospital bed as hot tears carved their way down her face invades Cyclone's memory like a plague. He will never forget the crimson staining her cheeks from the exertion as she fought. And fought. And fought. The way her skin was more chapped than smooth from the constant flow of tears- the way the light would catch the shininess of her skin from the petroleum jelly that he lovingly spread over her weeping skin.

She didn't make it home.

Neither did their baby boy.

And now, as this woman sits a couple stools down, crying in a way that's anything other than gentle, corralling her sobs into the fence of her chest; her face that same color he used to be so used to seeing, that same damn sheen to her skin and Beau feels sick. His eyes snap down to her hands and he watches as her fingers push through the soggy material of the napkin, a sight that makes him grimace a bit. Gross is not the word to use to describe a crying woman, that is fact he has to remind himself of, but the way her fingertips slipped right through that soggy excuse of a napkin is damn close. Cyclone schools his mouth into a tight line, knowing that anything he might say could make both of their day's spiral downwards even faster.

"Admiral," Cyclone wills himself to look her in the face, but his pupils dance around, not locking in on one spot too long. The frizz of her hair, then over the puffy skin under her eyes, then back up to the buzzing neon just over the top of her head. Anything to keep from looking into the woman's eyes. He manages a nod in her direction, rewarded with a hiccup from behind her glass.

A couple more used napkins are tossed up onto the bar, adding them to her steadily growing pile. Her beer is cold, and she can feel it travel all the way down, chilling her burning insides with each swallow. Cyclone takes a drink of his too, waiting for her to continue her thought. He closes his eyes as he tips back the glass, the image of the crying woman in front of him replaced with one of June, and he's not really sure which is worse.

Thunk goes the glass again.

"Can I ask a favor?" Her tone is so sweet, yet so, so sad. He thinks of June, then he nods, his body doing the motion for the sake of his heart, even though his brain is screaming at him. He was taught a long time ago that there are people who don't just ask for favors, specifically strange women in bars, new recruits, and the big brass. But, the woman looks about the age his son should have been now and his chest constricts with the realization that he could have been sitting here drinking with him if things had turned out different.

"How can I help you, kid?" The glass is hitting the bar top just a little bit too hard again, the splinter in the glass growing a millimeter. It's quickly covered by the large pad of Cyclone's thumb.

"I- well, I'm supposed to be here celebrating my Mother's leg-legacy," Another sob-full hiccup breaks up her sentence. Cyclone waits patiently for her to finish. She wipes at the tip of her nose with the back of her hand.

"And, she really liked to shoot whiskey," The explanation is coming out too wet and not at all concise, but Beau is nodding along anyway. The woman is rubbing at her eyes again, this time with her fingertips. She carefully runs her nail along the underside of her waterline, trying to catch the new tears before they streak down her cheeks with the rest of them. It doesn't really work, or even if it does, Cyclone can't tell. New tears fill up the spaces the freshly wiped away ones once occupied.

Despite the unclear delivery, Cyclone gets the message. Ordering two double shots of Tennessee whiskey, his wife's favorite, Cyclone offers his best sympathetic smile to his new drinking companion. Then, as the whiskey is being poured and he is shuffling over to the bar stool next to hers. That one creaks and sways too, but he tries not to pay it too much mind.

"What's your name, kid?" There's that warmth again, breaking through the tightening feeling in his chest.

"Lieutenant Y/N "Monsoon" Mitchell," Monsoon raises her shot glass to Cyclone, offering him a nod. It's such an informal introduction but both are thankful for the lack of salute, the lack of military theatrics, tradition, that they are usually stuck to upholding. After all, what is tradition except peer pressure ringing through from years past.

Cyclone knows her, well, her name, this recruit- on paper at least. Suddenly he feels a bit worse for feeling less alone when he spotted her crying.

"Beau "Cyclone" Simpson," He raises his own glass, moving to tap them together. It's a risky move with the state of the glasses, each sporting chips in their rims and hairline fractures down their side. They share sullen, makeshift smiles, neither putting any sort of heart behind the expression. It's a knowing sort of thing, the look they share, one that says I won't say anything if you won't.

"To my Mama, Lieutenant Maria Davis, the best damn medic the USS Vinson ever saw," Monsoon's toast is simple, but she means every single word. Beau's mouth turns up at the corners, nodding to her in acknowledgment of a good job.

"And too my wife, June, and our baby boy, god rest their souls."

The bottoms of the glasses hit the table before the rim makes contact with their lips. The alcohol goes down with a burn, but it's a welcomed sensation. Anything feels better than swallowing grief and there's too much in the air right now. Cyclone chases the shot with a gulp of his beer. Monsoon doesn't. She rests the cool glass against her warm cheek, squeezing her eyes shut. It's a refreshing feeling, almost like she is being rinsed from the inside out.

The alcohol settles deep within them. She is buzzing, he is a bit queasy. Neither need to say a thing about it. It kind of feels like church- like a well spoken sermon where one sits in the pew the furthest from the crowed, tucked away in the back, poking holes in each lesson the preacher delivers. After all, it's not really God's plan, is it? More dumb luck than divine circumstance. Yet, they are both still there, sitting on stool that could give out at any moment as the lights above them buzz and the world feels a little smaller.

"I was watching the class today. You're a damn good pilot, Monsoon," Beau speaks after a few beats of silence, not quite sure what to say. Go with the truth, right? It would be rude to move back to his original seat, especially after the woman next to him just got control of her tears, so small talk is the next best option. She cracks her eyes open, trying to read the expression that follows the compliment. It looks genuine, if not a little proud, so she nods.

And then the world is a bit smaller, still.

"Thank you, Admiral, sir," She sets the glass down, gentler than he has done the whole night, "That means a lot, coming from such a talented pilot as yourself, sir."

And then Cyclone is chuckling, his chest vibrating. That feeling being the closest thing to godly he has felt in a long time, but it's more Zeus, more Jupitar, than it could have ever been God. Monsoon's words are so genuine and it catches him off guard. Most people who say something like that are trying to kiss his ass so hard that there they all but wear marks on the backside of his trousers.

"Are you getting excited to graduate? The ceremony is next week, right?" He asks, bringing his eyes back to the neon behind her. The light above them flickers, neither one acknowledging it. There is a sort of kinship between the way their souls feel and the state of the bar, where living feels like the flickering of a light, tonight.

"Sir?" The question comes with a tilt of her head, her fingers wrapping loosely around her beer. He watches the condensation drip down the glass, the water disappearing behind her fingertips.

"To graduate," he explains like it's the clearest thing, "To finish Top Gun,"

"Oh!" Monsoon almost chuckles, but her soul is too heavy. She settles on a small smile, as kind as she can manage.

"I don't graduate for another six weeks. Today just wrapped my seventh week here, but halfway done does feel good," He can tell she is holding something back with the way her eyes are pinched at the corners, the smiles on her lips straining a bit under her words. Monsoon looks like she almost doesn't believe the words that are leaving her own mouth, but when Cyclone catches her eyes again he can see that look again, I won't say anything if you won't.

"Oh," Beau's hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, all of a sudden feeling like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "In that case, you are one of the best pilots I've ever seen,"

The words fall from his tongue like they are the simplest thing in the world. His eyebrows are still raised as he downs the rest of his beer. He contemplates Monsoon's career in his head, attempting to think back to files he knows are sitting on his desk, but the alcohol swirls the statistics together in his brain.

"Thank you, sir,"

"Is your father planning on coming to your graduation?" The question is so simple, the next plausible question after toasting to her Mother's life. Monsoon bristles at the question, her expression becoming impossibly more tight, pinched.

"He's uhm," The foam in the bottom of Monsoon's glass is the most interesting thing in the room. Tears are flooding her eyes again, and she's turning back to the shitty bar napkins in the even shittier dispenser. Cyclone knows his question hit a nerve based on how she is frantically pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser; and the Admiral's guilt swims to the surface. He is sure that the horizon of it can be seen in his iris's, if Monsoon were to look past the evident sadness that has made a home there. He's pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, blue in color and perfectly folded. He offers it to her and it's taken with a slightly shaky hand.

"M.I.A. or AWOL?" Cyclone asks. There's a bit of humor to his question that neither of them comment on.

"He went AWOL when I was seven," She doesn't take her eyes off the popping foam in the bottom of her glass, "Then I suppose he went M.I.A. three years later, when he stopped sending birthday cards,"

Cyclone hates the way her shrugs are all noncommittal and vaguely unbothered. He would have killed for a chance to raise his child, hell, he would move the Earth if that meant he even had a chance to do something. The fact that a man would walk out on his family, on his own child, it makes him sick. There is still something else Monsoon isn't saying; the way she chuckles is almost wax poetic with the way she rolls her eyes. Cyclone raises an eyebrow at her as he gestures to the bartended for two more on tap.

"I was in Admiral Kazansky's office today," She chuckles again, eyes glassy and unfocused. Cyclone slides the new beer over to her. He brings his up to his lips as she breathes deeply, trying to order the words together in her head, words she can't believe she is about to say out loud.

"There's a fucking picture of my father on his desk," Then she is downing the beer in quick, deep gulps. It's half gone before she sets it back down. Cyclone's brain is working on overdrive, swerving the hazy clouds of intoxication, searching for the mental picture of the Admiral's desk. Monsoon is chuckling in quiet disbelief, picturing the damn photo on his desk, her father and the Admiral shaking hands during their time at Top Gun. It makes her sick, really, but she doesn't need to say it based on the way her face feels, all contorted and ugly.

"I didn't even want to be a fucking pilot," Cyclone doesn't know if she is speaking to him anymore, or if the words are meant for her half empty glass. Hell, the way she speaks them they could be meant for the universe, for Khaos, for the air itself. There's a chip on that glass too, in the smooth side if of it, where it tapers down. He watches as Monsoon rubs her fingertip over it again and again and again.

"What did you want to do?" The question is leaving Cyclone's lips before he can stop it, common sense kicking in too slow. He is kicking himself.

Then, her thumb is stopping.

"I wanted to be a RIO," The glass is lifted to her lips again, her eyes rolling at the mere thought, "I wanted to fly with my Dad,"

The laughter that leave Monsoon's lips is dry as autumn air. Her lips crack too, under the stretch of her half hearted smile- one that holds no joy, it's all lukewarm and apathetic. He watches the skin of her lips crack and separate- it looks painful, and Cyclone has to fight not to grimace at the sight. Blood slowly begins to leak through the new flesh wound, bright red as it crests over the fullness of her bottom lip. He remembers watching the same thing happen to Maverick in the back of a helicopter as the wind whipped around them. But then, Maverick wore a truly joyous smile, one that rounded out his cheeks with a rosy hue that went deeper than the wind burn.

Then it hits Cyclone like a ton of bricks- like pulling 6 G's in a fucking barrel roll. Mitchell. This girl in front of him, this broken, fatherless girl is Pete Michell's kid. As if Cyclone needed another reason to hate the reckless man.

Beau wants to punch Pete Michell so hard that the only thing the man can make out in his field of vision is stars. Either the ones in the sky as he is planted with his back in the dirt, or the ones that would no doubt sparkle behind his eyelids. He wants to watch as the other man bleeds from the nose, the lip, the inside of his mouth. Cyclone can almost see the way the blood would pool in the spaces between Maverick's too white teeth, turning them a sickly vermilion. He would take a little too much pride watching the blood drip out of the corner of Pete's mouth, or down the crest of his chin.

Hell, Pete Michell, bloody, is a justified sight in Cyclone's book.

But that wouldn't help her right now. So Cyclone takes a breath, calming the flames of anger, of Hades that often lick at his legs, at his hands, whenever he so much as thinks about Pete "Maverick" Mitchell.

He's a bastard, that much is for sure. And it doesn't seem that Monsoon needs reminding of that fact.

"Well, kid," Beau is hunting, hurting for the right words, "If it's not wrong of me to say- your talents would have been wasted as a fucking RIO, especially for that son of a bitch," That gets Monsoon chuckling. She wants to ask if her grandmother was really that bad, but she doesn't make the joke. Though the laugh sounds a bit strangled as it untangles from the dense pain in her chest, Cyclone is happy to hear it. Something small swells in his heart at the sound.

Somewhere, deep in the cavernous spaces of his soul, a broken part of him feels like a father for the first time in years, even if it isn't exactly proper and the woman in front of him isn't his kid. Cyclone feels like a father, not even in a pseudo sense of the word, but truly like a father, and the feeling warms him from the inside out. It overtakes his whole body, leaving him almost buzzing.

Now it's his turn to chuckle. It's sour with pain and longing, but it's still there. Like joy is trying to crawl it's way out, lukewarm and dripping wet.

"Well, Admiral, sir," Monsoon's voice is a little lighter now, sweeter maybe. Cyclone is watching as she's pulling her coat over her shoulders, "Thank you for the favor, and the drink,"

She's nodding her head in the direction of the half full glass still dripping with condensation.

"Thank you for remembering them with me, too," They share a knowing smile, it's a little broken but it is still warm. Again, it's one of those I won't say anything if you won't looks shared between the pair. They lock eyes one last time before Monsoon is turning on her heel, ready to head right out of the front door.

For just a second Cyclone wonders if Monsoon will shudder with relief in the same way the new Top Gun recruits usually do, or if something as simple as that will effect such a skilled pilot. He wonders if anyone will be there for her on graduation day, or if she will be stuck alone in the seas of families and friends- just like he was all those years ago.

I won't say anything if you won't. Yeah, that's not a chance he's willing to take.

"Wait," Cyclone calls after Monsoon, his voice a little too loud and not at all hesitant enough. Monsoon chances a look back, confusion written into the furrow of her brows. He becons he back with a wave of his hand. Cyclone pulls a business card from his front pocket. "I am going TDY, but I should be back for your graduation," The words don't make sense to Monsoon, and neither does the card that he's presenting her between his two fingers. She is cocking her head to the side again, eyebrows furrowed. Cyclone tries to not notice how much she looks like her father.

He notices anyway.

"Email me, remind me of the date, and I'll be there," He is presenting her the card again with a shake of his wrist. Then, she reaches out, grabbing it with nervous fingers.

"Oh, uh-" There are new tears forming in Monsoon's eyes at the words, the card now swimming in her vision. "Thank you, sir,"

"Oh, better yet," Cyclone plucks the card from her fingertips, a move that may have been considered crass but Monsoon can't help but find a little bit funny. Cyclone quickly scribbles down a phone number in messy loops of blue ink, the numbers taking up a little too much room on the back side of the card. Then, he blows on it carefully to make sure the ink won't smudge before handing the card back out to her in the same manner as before.

"Text me the reminder, so it doesn't get lost in my email," Cyclone's smile is so kind and there is a ribbon of hope, a glimmer, really, shinning through the lightest parts of his irises. Monsoon can barely hold back her tears at the sight, and so the card becomes the most interesting thing in the room, held between her shaking fingertips. "You deserve to have a parent there, kid,"

Those are the last words they share that night. They don't need to say anything else. After all, how do you explain the want to stand in as a lost family member? Beau would never admit just how much he's dying for a kid to support, to cheer on and celebrate. Monsoon knows the feeling too, the want to be a daughter who isn't seen as an inconvenience, a burden.

The next time they see each other, Cyclone is sitting in the front row at her Top Gun graduation, a small bouquet of calla lilies on his lap. There is a proud smile on his face and the moment Monsoon sees it there are tears in her eyes. She wonders if this is the feeling she had been missing out on, a father's pride, his love. She tries not to dwell on it, even as walks across that stage.

When the pair meet in the crowd, Cyclone doesn't hesitate to pull her into a hug, one that may not have been professional or regulated, but he feels a weight come off her shoulders the moment he pulls her in. He feels a little more whole too. The hug is short, quick, really, but there are tears in both of their eyes when they pull back.

Cyclone has so much pride for her, and God, Monsoon can feel it. From the way he beams at her to the way he shoves a camera into the hands of his battle buddy, tucking her under his arm. Both clad in dress uniform, posing for the camera as she holds the flowers against her chest to try and quell the beating of her heart. They both sport tears in their eyes, cheeks round and plump red as they smile too wide.

That photo makes onto his desk a week later, displayed in a beautiful mahogany frame.

USS Stennis. Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Four Years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The first time Monsoon calls him Pops, it's an accident. She got shipped out to an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific. The tour is lonely. She doesn't know the team, the group who have been stationed there for the last six months, and they weren't overly keen on the 'new girl'. Monsoon made it through three months before she started to feel like a part of the team. It's a conscious choice, really, to keep working at fitting in. But in the end that team, those people, they aren't her family and they aren't going to remember her after she ships back stateside.

Emails to and from Cyclone kept her going, as he reassured her that life on the carrier isn't easy on anyone. He urges her to try and make better friends with those who hold a more permanent position on the vessel, so she does her best to take the newbies under her wing. If she wasn't welcomed, that was out of her control, but she can sure as hell make sure that the newbies are.

The plan starts off a little rough, the new sailors unsure of the overly friendly Lieutenant amongst the standoffish seasoned crew of the vessel. But days turn to weeks, trust is earned and the long days and nights onboard get easier to swallow.

Then, Cyclone gets shipped out to the carrier for a briefing. He can't help the rumble of excitement that tracks through him. He might get to see Monsoon, his kid, and he's going to do everything in his power to track her down on board. 

There is too much joy on his features as he touches down on the carrier. Too much joy for the briefing he is getting ushered into. It drags on longer than necessary as they hash and rehash out plans for missions. He knows he should care, he really does, but it's not like people's lives are on the line this mission. It's all practice runs and jet maintenance, and how could anyone expect him to focus when his kid is on the same vessel and he is just fucking sitting there. Cyclone barely sits still, knowing the clock is ticking down on his time aboard and if this meeting goes on any longer than planned he is going to miss his chance to see Monsoon.

Around suppertime, Monsoon is heading to the canteen, desperate for some sort of nourishment. It has been a long day, trial after trial, and thankfully for her, she's fairing better than some of her other wingmen. At least she hasn't puked over the side of the carrier since her first week aboard.

She guides one of the newer pilots, Story, down the stairs from the flight deck, her stomach rumbling as they go. The new Lieutenant on board hot on her heels as they make their way down the stairs.

"I know, Story, but you're going to get through this," Monsoon's voice is low as they wind their way through the tight hallways of the lower decks. "You're a good pilot, there is nothing you can't do. So what if you need a little more practice. That's why we're out here, right?"

The younger man hums in agreement, disappointment scribbled all over his face. They are both coated in sweat, Monsoon's hair sticking to her sweat soaked skin. She craves a shower almost as much as she craves food. Her body is weighed down with flight fatigue as she drags her feet.

The halls of the ship begin to smell more and more like hot biscuits and butter the closer they get to the mess hall. Their stomach's rumble in unison at the smell wafting down the hallway. Monsoon is rounding the corner with her front turned towards Story, not bothering a glance in the direction her feet are heading. A second later, her back meets a hard body, a grunt coming out of her mouth at the impact.

Story goes white at the sight of his new friend running straight into an Admiral. Monsoon doesn't like the look on his face, he looks like he's just seen a ghost, or maybe prophesied a murder. So she turns around slowly, so, so slowly. Her eyes are scrunched as she turns. There is already an apology on her lips as Monsoon peeks to see just exactly who she just ran into.

Eyes go wide, and smiles break out over their faces.

The need for food, a hot shower, and sleep dissipate from her body as she looks up at the man in front of her, joy overtaking.

"Pops!" The name comes out a little too quick, catching them both of guard. Monsoon's cheeks flush dark with embarrassment, realizing what she just said and who she just said it to. Without warning, Cyclone is pulling Monsoon into his chest, wrapping her into a warm, tight hug, just the kind of hug a Dad would give.

"Hey Kiddo,"

TAG LIST

@its-the-pilot

@t4medicroe

@inkandarsenic

[mychlapci]

so I was chatting with a buddy of mine a few days ago, and my brainworms conjured up titan preggers in the sense that those tiny baby sparklets they conceive? Just like mama Primus'(titans are just Primus' oldest children when the largest contingent of Unicron's cum condensed to ignite the heaviest sparks before the process evened out) and the Well of Allsparks, fresh sparks ignite when there is enough robocum fizzling on the inside of their delicate meshes.

But you see, all those sparks are normal mecha-sized sparks. They're sooooo tiny in contrast to their massive gestation chambers and chasmic valves, their gigantic carriers have to rely on internal monitors to keep and eye on them. So these titans will exhibit all carrying symptoms even if they can't /feel/ where the sparklets have been deposited on their insides unless the entirety of their forge walls are covered in itty bitty baby sparklets.

Now, I like to imagine that every part of a titan can be converted into a functional facility that can accommodate normal sized mecha; this includes their valves and gestation chambers of course.

Just imagine how cavernous that shaft of a valve would be as mecha make pilgrimages up that slick surface to enter the forge, their little feet tickling the resident titan and charging them up so good. Sometimes they'd even convert their valves into being a part of the subway system, tightening just enough to still let trainformers pass through them, giving the mecha a pussy express shortcut to their holy destination: the soakhouse in the gestation chamber.

It's like a bathhouse, but you mainly go there to soak like in a hotspring or an oil pool. And of course, participate in various orgies while within. I mean, with how fertile everything smells when covered in the titan's juices, how can a bot resist? But do remember though, if you want to fuck inside the host, you best be sure to be ready to take up the responsibility if you happen to leave a happy little bundle of joy behind. Not that it's a definite guarantee, it's like a 1 in 3 chance, but still.

Because if you get a titan pregnant, they will never let you traverse through them peacefully until you go back in there and continue feeding the growing sparklet with your transfluid. Best hope your spray game is up to par if the sparklet is attached to high places. You can of course try to placate them by interacting with the physical features inside them, like rutting against any surface, like their missile silo shaft of a valve or against the spiral doors to their forge. You can even suck off the various fixtures in the soakhouse, like showerheads, faucets, gate pistons etc, but they still won't let you out until you nourish their sparklets.

Primes in particular are banned from spilling their seed inside the soakhouse, because the Matrix makes their cum extra fertile. This is why Rodimus gets locked in the cuck chair every time the lads say they're going for a soak in the bath house. FortMax and Metroplex are kind of tired of Rodimus knocking them up too many times.

Like don't get them wrong, they like the feel of those little adorable sparklings hatching and popping out from their casings after fully developing, falling into their liquids and crawling all over their insides until the pilgrims arrive to pick them up. But they're very, very tired of having sparklings with Rodimus' annoying temperament when they could have bitlets from the pick of an entire populace of diverse sparklines tochoose from yeah.

They singlehandedly repopulate/colonise any region they settle on after all, it's only fair that they should be allowed some extent of fussiness, no? Think about it, do you want Autobot City on Earth to be filled with nothing but baby Hot Rods? Not even Metroplex has the patience for a city full of mini Hot Rods.

The MetroProwlMagnus fic is coming along very painfully. I hate being in university sometimes-🔌

oughhhHhh i love this, i am writing this down immediately.

This is like a perfect mix between perverted mechpreg and normal transformer reproduction. Yes, cybertronians are forged in caves deep underneath the surface of cybertron, created from sentient metal and spark energy. and the caves? Pussy and uterus. Dripping and pregnant and so very fun to bathe in. And it's an extremely pleasant experience for the titan themself, who'll be overloading constantly as the little hands and feet of their citizens stroke their walls.

The sparklings hang from the ceiling and the walls of the forge, pulsing with life energy, each of them encased in a soft sack of energon and transfluid... I absolutely love the idea that as long as they have a titan with them, cybertronians can mostly reproduce wherever they settle. All they need to do is turn their large friend on and they'll be birthing a new population in no time. It's probably a little scary for the inhabitants of Earth... but it's not like they're gonna overtake them or anything!

ahshsjagsh and of course, Rodimus needs to be locked out of the bathhouses. He already has too many babies out there in the world, they don't need more.

[bullet-prooflove]

Love Me Tender: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Reader (Mini Drabble)

Tagging: @words-and-seeds @xoxabs88xox @cosmic-psychickitty @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond

You’re last ones in The Hard Deck that night. Rooster’s still playing the piano as he sings quietly to himself, the serenade of ‘Love Me Tender’ flooding through the almost empty bar. Jake sways gently with you in the space by the pool table, where Bob and Phoenix play a game of nine ball. Jake’s cheek is pressed to yours as he holds you close, the scent of sea still clinging to his skin.

It’s been a minute since you did this, took a moment to just simply be. Life’s been too busy, there hasn’t been much time for the two of you, he’s been on mission aboard a carrier over the past few weeks, and you’ve been covering shifts for one of the other K9 handlers whilst they’ve been on leave.

“I’ve missed this.” He murmurs, his lips ghosting across your jaw as he speaks. “I’ve know I’ve not been around…”

He trails off as you tip your head up to meet his gaze. You know his relationships prior to you have been transient, a series of disasters that have ended due to the nature of his job. He worries sometimes, about what happens when he goes away, that you’ll wake up one morning and realise you’re better off without him. That you’ll find someone more solid, who’s a fixture in your everyday life.

“I’ve missed you too Jake.” You tell him. You see the edge of his mouth tipping up into handsome smile of his, the one that makes you weak at the knees. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight and I’ll show you just how much.”

Love Hangman? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[ghostoffuturespast]

Yeah, I like the new update.

Have cheese will travel 🧀 Took these on my PS5.

I was living vicariously through my fellow Rivermancers with all y'all's apartment posts while I was on my writing sabbatical lol. I love seeing everyone else's pics!

Normally, I don't buy the other apartments, because while they're fun, they don't add all that much to the game for me at least. But knew I had to get The Glen one after the update.

This was probably a good 45 minutes of setup. Then there where a lot of antics crawling around on the back of the couch, the TV, railings, lighting fixtures. Tried over by the pool table and in the kitchen, then went back to the couch. Ran up the stairs so many times. Eventually managed to get Grandpa to clip through mid-fall from the loft while crouched.

Lord bless lofted ceilings.